Little Things: Lockbell
by lunalovespudding3
Summary: 100-word Lockbell drabbles based off one-word prompts. A variety of themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Muse**

While in the hospital, Bell had a lot of time to reflect, to muse on his life.

The tremors in his hand would change everything. He could never go back to work - and it was all Sherlock Holmes' fault.

Bell's blood boiled whenever he thought of Holmes. Somehow, though, it wasn't all anger. He found Holmes was on his mind often, whether in fury or... otherwise.

He knew how Holmes felt about him - he called half the precinct 'Not Bell,' for God's sake. The thought of it wasn't terrible; he just wasn't ready.

Give him time, though.

**Wrong**

Marcus Bell was hardly ever wrong. His intelligence and his gut ensured that. Which was good, because you had to be right often to date Sherlock Holmes.

It was difficult, keeping up with him. He jumped around, going from "Green hair" to "From Queens" before Bell could speak.

It was nice when they were on the bed, Bell on top of Sherlock. Frankly put, Bell was better at sex. This led to Sherlock constantly introducing new things in an attempt to one-up Bell. But no matter how many ropes he acquired, nothing could beat Bell, his hands, and his mouth.

**Key**

"What's this?" Bell asked, looking at the key Sherlock had dropped in his hand.

"The key to the brownstone," he explained. "I know Joan already gave you a copy for emergencies, but I believe we have reached the point in our relationship where one partner gives the other a key to their home, as a symbol of trust and devotion."

Bell stared for a second. "Oh. I - thanks. I can get a copy of my key made-"

"No need. I can pick your lock in under a minute."

"Right."

"But thank you. Your trust means the world to me."

**Trap**

Of all the strange things Bell had seen in the brownstone, this took the cake.

Mouse traps and snares lined the floor. Bell stopped short in front of a box, his eyes quickly falling on Sherlock. The man was setting up yet another trap.

"Bell! Careful there - I'm setting this up for Joan, testing her reflexes. Just make your way through," he called.

Bell picked his way across the minefield. "Hey, Holmes, I just wanted to see how you're doing on the MacArthur case."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm making progress... that's the only reason you came?"

"Not really." Bell smiled.

**India**

"Joan!" Sherlock exclamed as she walked in. "India? Really?"

"How-"

"Brochure, purse."

She sighed. "I need a vacation, Sherlock. We could use some time apart." He started to protest. "No. Besides, you're neglecting other relationships that could help you."

He deflated at her glare. "You mean Detective Bell. I've told you-"

"I know when you're lying. Look, I leave next week. At least have dinner with him." Sherlock almost stomped his foot.

The doorbell rang. He started towards it, yelling, "I'll ask him. But don't expect wedding - Bell!" He dropped off, seeing the man in front of him. "Hello."

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><p><strong>I have enough prompts for six weeks, so I don't need anything else for now. I'm also doing this for a variety of ships, so check around. Updates Saturdays, starting 215.  
>Review with feels, rants, suggestions, or anything else you feel I should know.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger warning for drugs/addiction in Light.**

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><p><strong>Cake<strong>

Sherlock and Bell were about to take a bite of their cake when their phones rang.

"Joan," Sherlock predicted.

"Captain?" Bell guessed. "Uh-huh."

"Yes."

"Got it."

"Alright."

They both hung up at the same time.

"Homicide," Bell reported.

"Horrific timing. Waiter?" Called Sherlock, pulling on his coat. "I'm afraid we must duck out. Send the bill to the NYPD."

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't exactly-" They were already out the door.

Bell frowned, but it was more exasperated than frustrated. "I don't think the Captain will be too happy about that."

"He interrupted our date; he should pay for dinner."

**Horse**

Bell can think of eleven things he would like to wake him up. Six of them involve Sherlock Holmes. None of them involve a severed horse's head.

He trudges to the scene. Anyone densible would be exhausted, but no, late mornings are a thing of the past. It would be nice to get some coffee, though.

"Separation occured postmortem," someone proclaims. Something warm appears in Bell's hand. He looks up, and Sherlock is there, fingers lingering around the coffee cup.

"Thought you might want some." He smiles, more awake at the mere smell. "The head, yes, but the eyeballs, no..."

**Light**

There was a light at the end of the tunner for Sherlock. He so often wanted to spiral back down, to fall into the haze of needles and powder. It would be easy enough.

But no, no, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The light was the friends he'd made in New York, the life he had built. And he would be damned if he let them down.

He would not fail Joan. He would not fail Gregson. He would not fail Alfredo. He would not fail Bell.

Not after everything they had been through together.

**Eyes**

He was dreaming.

He had to be, right?

No, Sherlock didn't dream much anymore. He rarely entered REM sleep anyway.

But for Bell to be looking at him life that, the resentment gone from his eyes? It couldn't be real.

Sherlock hadn't expected forgiveness, not after everything that had happened. He had resigned himself to the possibility that he and Bell would never really be friends again, let alone more.

It could've been a gradual thing. The anger fading slowly, replaced bit by bit with acceptance and warmth. Sherlock only noticing it now, though? No.

Or maybe it didn't matter.

**Blood**

Of all the times they had been injured, every bloody scrape, bruise, _gunshot wound,_ for some reason a paper cut set Sherlock off.

He rushed to get a Band-Aid, wrapping it around Bell's finger almost ridiculously tenderly.

If Bell didn't know better, he'd swear Sherlock was about to kiss it better. He took the papers they had been rifling through to prevent further injury.

The throbbing was minimal. Nothing, really, compared to what he'd gotten in the field.

As if he sensed the incredulity, Sherlock muttered, "One should be safe in one's own home."

Bell looked around the brownstone. _Home._

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><p><strong>I DID IT<br>I'm so sorry this is late. But technically, it's still the 15th. It's Saturnight; it's not Sunday until I go to bed. Which I haven't.  
>The quality of these might be somewhat... lacking... considering it's 3AM. But who knows! Maybe they're sleep-deprived genius!<br>Tell me which in the reviews =D**


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